Thursday, May 8, 2008

My husband had a conversation with a friend last night and while you enjoy the following dialogue please keep in mind that during this exchange I banished myself to the bedroom. Because God (a descriptive I have learned to live with) forbid I jeopardize the possibility of my husbands weekly beer ritual. Besides, no one wants to watch a thirty-two year old woman motion repeatedly to her crotch and ass every time you say something she doesn’t like. No one. And the rolling of the eyes has to stop too. But the worst is after you give me that third glass of wine I warned you about. Because then you are hit with the trifecta of my immaturity: the eye rolling, the ass slapping, and the faux jerk-off simulation. This is obviously no way of conducting myself in front of a creationist as it neither demonstrates my ability to tolerate adversity or my ability to reason.

Friend: My point is still and always will be, show me the fossils! There should be billions of them not just enough to fill a shoebox. As far as transitional fossils are concerned since natural selection happens so slowly, we should be able to piece together concrete evidence within the fossil bed from point a-z. Also we should be able to see a number of animals that are in this process right now.

Husband: We only have enough transitional fossils to fill a shoebox? That's outrageous! If we find a fossil that is in transition, creationist will either say that it was micro evolution, or if it's different enough, they will say it's a completely different species that God made. Can you see the game? What evidence could one ever provide that would make them doubt their faith? The answer is none. There is nothing that anyone can show that would cause a true believer to doubt. Because by definition, a true believer "believes" when all evidence is to the contrary. So, even if there was the evidence you ask for, which is impossible, it really wouldn't matter to a true believer anyway.

So enamored with my husband's lucid dialectic in defense of my immature passion, that by the time our bible-thumper friend left I immediately ripped off all his clothes, “Yeah baby, let's transition."